Ghosts
by Sopih
Summary: 6 months after the war in Republic City, Amon is still haunting Korra. Literally.


_Ghosts _by Quiver is probably ideal as a soundtrack for this. Forgive any typos, I'm ever so sleepy.

* * *

His ghost waits by her bed when she sleeps.

As she wakes, she knows his presence is there. It's on the very edge of her consciousness; not quite alive, but still occupying space, something made up of loosely mortal matter. This is the way she knew him in life, hidden behind a mask. Only his eyes show through the holes, tiny windows into the soul of a dead man. Light doesn't seem to treat him as it does everything in her room. He's drained of colour, just a little dull, just a little slower. So agile when they fought before, he's only got lighter and now he seems to have the consistency of mist.

When she opens her eyes, it will be the redness that greets her first. The Avatar is not allowed to forget. The Avatar cannot forget. Too many wars and too much damage around the eye of the storm where they live. And there it is; the Avatar lives on, leaving destruction in their wake. Spines snapped, wits crushed, the ordinary people who had no sacred destiny lie in the gutter because of any number of complicated factors that come down to the fact that the Avatar failed. Through the eyes of a ghost, it becomes sadly evident that sacred destiny counts for little in the hands of a frightened, beleaguered teenager. Perhaps humans were not intended to have access to the power that the Avatar does—and children, never. Her guardians try to mould her, fight over her, pull her back and forth like a _toy_ and not somebody who should be nearly an adult but is instead curled up with her hands over her ears lashing out at anyone who speaks and shouting _not listening not listening—_

—_you can't tell me what to do, I'm not listening!—_

He is… perhaps a demon, perhaps a caretaker, perhaps a conscience drifting behind her. Maybe he just had nowhere else to go when ultimate justice was meted out. He doesn't exactly seem excited about the prospect of eternity with her either. The idea of him being her conscience is pretty laughable, considering that this was the man who threatened small children, held a city hostage, bombed a fleet, but Korra's not laughing. They seem to be genuinely stuck with each other. Every time she looks at him, she remembers. And she claims that she defeated him, but in the face of that redness staring back at her, she's forced to look on the fact on that she never did. He left. He… disappeared. She threw him from a window, desperate, and saw the unmasked truth staring back at her with wide eyes. He left. He was never truly punished for what he did to Republic City. Some force may have sat in judgement on high, but human law never got its closure.

Korra ran from the knowledge that there are people out there who hate her as a symbol of their pain (and that there might be a drop of truth in there).

Even though she knows at this point, she still hopes against hope every morning that he'll be gone and she can begin to forget—but no, there he waits for her, staring into space and… thinking? She doesn't know if this is actually the shade of the man she knew, or a spirit taking his form; if he's the real man then she's a little curious about what he thinks of… If it's a spirit, then she doesn't really want to know. Korra doesn't understand them.

She avoids thinking about the fact that he's here means that he died, but it still occupies her thoughts. How did it happen? Was it a group of disenfranchised Equalists? An angry mob of benders? Some kind of… accident? They followed up where he'd gone, of course… but they'd never found him. And a few months after the resolution of Republic City's war, Korra had found out why. Staring at her ghostly companion, she shivers. Back in the place where she grew up, she is inexplicably cold all the time.

"Rise and shine," he says, voice as dry as always. "Another day greets you, Avatar." She wonders what his father would have thought of this; avenger and target, locked together. When he speaks, there's only rarely a hint of hatred or anger. The venom with which he regarded her when he was alive seems to have palled; they're by no means amiable, but they're not perpetually sealed in combat, either. "What will your sacred duty as the bridge between mankind and the spirits manifest itself as today?"

Amon was always larger than life. Even in death, he fills the room with sheer will alone. He's sardonically amused by her efforts to try and dam the increasing cracks in Water Tribe relations. He seems to enjoy watching her flounder, but it's always bittersweet; whether it was directly or indirectly—and she's never dared to ask—she helped to cause his death. Her incapability, her struggle, her weakness, only makes it even more bitter that his plans were thwarted… and he died. It was entirely possible that he could have followed in his father's footsteps and escaped to start a new life and, yet, here they are.

Korra rubs her eyes, and tries to will herself to get up. She moans a little, and curls up underneath her blankets. When she gets up, she knows that everyone will be fighting; for a piece of her, against her, with her. She's _tired_. There's only so much time she can spend with people before she ends up torn between wanting to spend some time alone, and frightened, deep at her core, that she'll _be_ alone again if this continues. Korra doesn't have friends her own age. Growing up in the compound, she had teachers, guards, and occasionally family. Now she has a homicidal extremist leader as a constant companion. It's not where she would have expected to be at the glamorous age of 17. When she was little, she imagined that by this time she'd have legions of admirers, friends hanging on her every word, people clamouring for audiences with her; she was the Avatar! She is the Avatar.

So far, being the Avatar just seems to mean that everybody wants a piece of you, and you can never do anything right.

With a loud grunt, Korra throws back the covers. She warms her hands and exhales hot air into the room, to heat it a little as she prepares for the day. Well, she thinks, that's not entirely true. She loves bending, she really does. Being able to bend all four elements is great. She's really _good _at that. Why isn't that enough? Sure, Avatar Aang was really spiritual and stuff, she respects that, but that was his thing. This is hers! It's just… having a predecessor who managed to stop a war, a real, like, really long, serious war when he was 13, it's serious pressure. Korra's not sure she's ever going to live up to that, but everyone seems to expect her to.

As she gets dressed, Amon will be staring into space, away from her. She doesn't know why he cares. You don't have many secrets from a ghost. Korra's in the habit of talking to herself while she thinks, while she tries to puzzle out how a 17 year old is supposed to sort out the world's path; when Amon appeared, she stopped so that he wouldn't overhear. After a while, she gave up. There's no point. The phrase _take your secrets to the grave_ has taken on rather a darkly amusing tint.

Dressed, Korra sits back down on her bed and feels the reluctance thrum through her. She resists the urge to topple right over onto her side. "Eat something," he says, sounding impatient. When she looks at him out of the corners of her eyes, he's crossed his arms and his expression is bored, aloof. Their eyes meet, and he tilts his head at a decidedly sardonic angle. "You won't even feed yourself," he said. She's not sure if it's weary resignation, or some sign of actually caring.

They're stuck together, after all, and neither of them is much pleased about it. But where they are now is an uneasy truce. It's a silence of omission where no grievances are aired. Instead, they lurk some place further off. As they are now, neither is willing to push the fragile peace beyond what it can bear: sniping remarks, some evocative looks. Even belligerent Korra is able to back down from the possibility of permanent hostility hanging over her shoulder wherever she goes. Even the man who hated her has retreated from all-out war.

Korra sighs. "Time to go face the music," she says. He nods in reply.

For a moment, she sits there, fully aware of how _strange_ this all is. All in a day's work for an Avatar, she thinks, managing to crack a grin. With a heavy grunt, she hefts herself fully upright and strides out of her room, defiantly ready to face down the day. Her ghost trails after her.


End file.
